


Chasing Rabbits

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Bottom Sam, But Mostly Hurt, Dark Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Sam, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Scars, Self-Harm, Top Dean, Traumatized Sam, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: The yellow wavelength is relatively long and essentially stimulating. In this case the stimulus is emotional, therefore yellow is the strongest color, psychologically. The right yellow will lift our spirits and our self-esteem; it is the color of confidence and optimism. Too much of it, or the wrong tone in relation to the other tones in a color scheme, can cause self-esteem to plummet, giving rise to fear and anxiety. Our “yellow streak” can surface. (via)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to tag everything. If you find a mistake in how certain topics or illnesses are portrayed, please let me know; I pulled this entire story and its “facts” out of my personal pool of passingly-earned second hand experiences—and I’m eager to learn. 
> 
> Dialogue _in quotes and complete italics_ is spoken in sign language.

Sam has the perfect neck.

Slim. Wire-strung muscles. Pale.

There are scars on there, too. Some of them run down until Sam’s loose-collared tee give them shelter from the curious outside world.

Dean knows he is being watched watching. Lets their eyes meet, signs _“Are you okay?”_ just so he can watch Sam nod his head.

Mary looks at them in the rear-view mirror, smiles her best mother-smile. “Almost there.”

Sam returns the smile as honestly as he probably can manage as of now. Dean notices his fingers bunching up the hem of his tee—long, bony fingers, connected to roughened knuckles.

Sam says, “Cool,” in the most fleeting, the hoarsest voice this car has ever not-echoed.

~

Space is important. It’s why Dean hovers in doorways when a new one arrives. Over the years, it has become a valuable skill. He doesn’t mind being invisible.

“We’re glad you’re here, Sam. We’ll do our best to make this a good home for you.” Mary clutches her elbows instead of the stiff, ninety pounds of foster kid. She keeps her distance, too. It’s not hard to tell that Sam isn’t taking the change in scenery so well. Dean keeps shifting his eyes from her to Sam to Dad, ready to intervene if he needs to. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last.

“If you need anything, never hesitate to ask.” Dad talks as quietly as he can. They have all read Sam’s file.

What is supposed to be a nod, some kind of approval, comes out as a jerk of Sam’s head. Panicked, then more panicked about this loss of muscle control, Sam seizes even harder. The way he is squeezing his fists must dig his nails into his palms.

Sam mouths, “Thank you,” but there is no sound except for a whistle of air, dry movement of lips.

Dean steps in. _“I’ll show you your room.”_

Dean can hear his parents sigh. He squares his shoulders before he leads Sam upstairs. First room on the left, right next to Dean’s room, is the Nest (but Dean likes to call it the Nursery, even though they have an actual nursery down the hall). The door is already ajar, waiting for a new child. Scent of fresh paint and new furniture. Dean scraped the wooden floor himself, after Daniel.

_“How’s that? You like brown?”_

Sam nods again, but isn’t crossing the threshold.

_“We can repaint it if you like. I don’t know shit about your taste.”_

Sam has got pinprick-eyes paired with a pale-thin mouth. He directs the first onto Dean after scanning the room, chews on the latter. Doesn’t speak. Looks like he is holding his breath.

Dean raises both arms in defeat, gives a friendly smile to show that he’s not as serious or full of shit, whatever image Sam might have of him by now.

_“I’ll shut up. You need some time?”_

The most hastily-signed, _“Stay.”_

So Dean takes a seat on what will become Sam’s chair. Where Sam will sit to do his homework eventually. (He’s scheduled for some tests next week so they can decide on a grade to put him in.) Dean watches the teen in his complete rigidity, how those eyes are unsure of whether to go popping-wide or squinting. Dean waits. He’s been here before. They always need to take their own time.

Sam starts shifting from foot to foot after a few minutes. Some more and he’s finally stepping inside his new room—small, stiff steps. He is white-knuckle-grabbing the strap of his backpack with both of his hands. A lifeline.

Dean sits and waits.

They’re more animal than human at first. It’s normal. Instincts, no trust.

Dean relaxes his shoulders, lets his head droop. He gets a quick glance for it but is dismissed as harmless.

~

Dean whistles along with the radio while the coffee runs through its filter. Four cups—him, Mom, Sam, Sally. Sam likes his coffee black, and he likes lots of it. The nutritionist told them to direct his interest towards cream and sugar instead, but not even Dean is as cruel as that.

Tray secure in both hands, Dean strolls into the living room first, feet dragging extra-loud to announce himself. There is not much to interrupt though. Sam looks neither communicative nor comfortable, both arms slung protectively around his middle, laid back all the way into the sofa. Sally sighs, chirps, “Thanks,” and takes her coffee with obvious gratitude. Dean holds the tray in Sam’s direction so he can pick his choice. Like the last five times, he takes the Dallas Cowboys cup.

Mary is in her office and smiles upon the sight of her son, maybe more so since he is bringing her coffee. She says, “Thank you, angel,” and brushes his arm with her hand, and he smiles back.

Dean settles on the bench in their garden, cup carefully placed next to him, hand absently searching for the book on top of the pile he brought earlier. Birds are chirping out here, and he can hear the radio from inside the kitchen through the open window.

The house is usually this quiet, but it’s worst with the initial weeks’ tension. Comes close to feeling claustrophobic, really.

Dean re-opens the book where he last left it and takes a first sip from his coffee.

It’s the tenth of May.

~

They’re skinning potatoes for Dad. Dad makes the best potato-cauliflower casserole in the entire state, seriously. He’s busy in the kitchen unearthing endless supplies of cream, nuts, whole grain products et cetera et cetera; your usual Cosseting Up A Stray starter kit. Dean hopes Sam doesn’t catch onto it. Sam is a fussy eater. But he said he likes potatoes.

Sam isn’t helping at all. He basically rolls around the produce instead of preparing it. His peeler lies next to his cutting board, untouched. Dean doesn’t call him out. It’s the usual tip-toed dance between giving space and inclusion.

Dean worked a good two thirds through the lot until Sam rolls his current toy-potato towards him. Probably to get his attention, so Dean looks up at him.

Sam looks better. Relaxed. (As relaxed as he will get at this point, but it’s a start.)

_“Can you talk?”_

Dean grunts, “Yeah,” just to hear John holler, “What?” from the kitchen.

“Nothing; I’m talking to _Sam_.”

“Oh.” Water, running into a pot.

Dean turns back to his task (literally) at hand. Knows Sam is watching him intently now, like a curious child.

“I just prefer not to, y’know.”

_“Are you doing it because of me?”_

Dean puts the half-skinned potato down to sign, _“Calm down. You’re not that special.”_

Sam ends up eating half a serving of the casserole.

(Later, in bed, hours after everyone went to bed, Dean can hear pussycat-feet tip-stepping down the stairs. He hears the refrigerator open, plastic foil rustling, and he smiles into his pillow.)

~

The first time Sam sticks his head into Dean’s room feels way too invasive. Too special.

Dean unnecessarily shifts to gather his books closer around him.

“Hey.”

Sam’s eyes are on him for a short moment before going right back to roaming.

“I said _hey_.”

Sam blinks.

Dean plucks one of his earphones in order not to get too loud on accident. “Can I help you or something?”

_“Are you busy?”_

Dean drops his book into his lap and holds back from rolling his eyes. _“What’s it look like, squid?”_ and adds a loud-out, “Duh.”

Sam enters the room slightly further so Dean can see him signing, _“Sorry.”_ Then ducks backwards, out, away.

Dean groans. Gets up. Follows. Finds Sam just sitting down on his own bed, in his own room.

Dean needs to blink twice to verify the title on the book Sam quickly tries to hide under his pillow.

Dean blandly says, “That’s mine,” and Sam shakes his head.

Like, feverishly.

“Why didn’t you just ask?” Stay calm. He doesn’t know better. “I would have lent it to you. I was looking for that. I need it.”

One hand protective on his pillow-treasure, Sam uses the other to ask, _“Homework?”_

“Essay.”

_“Homework.”_

“No, like, scientific. I’m in college, dude.”

_“No homework in college?”_

“Give it back.”

Sam shakes his head. _“Mine.”_

“No.”

_“Mine.”_

“Sam—”

“What’s going on here?”

Dean flinches towards Mary, then lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw.

She insists, “Boys?” and Dean knows that tone.

“He took one of my books without asking.”

Her nostrils flare, once, shortly, before she glosses the shock over, softens her features anew to turn towards Sam. Doesn’t hold out her hand to request the stolen object. “Sam,” she asks, “is that true?”

_“No.”_

“Really?”

_“Yes.”_

Mary turns back to her son. Glares.

“What?”

(She says it quietly, as if Sam’s ears weren’t perfectly trained to pick up any hint of noise.) “Let him have it for now.”

“Mom, I need it for school!”

“Don’t yell.”

“I’m not—” He interrupts himself, wipes his hand over his face, doesn’t look at her. Nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

“We’ll talk about this later.” She looks at Sam for that. Then, back at Dean, trying to put a soft hand on him (but he shoulders her off).

Dean gets a ten-minute talk for banging his door.

~

Sam sneaks food into his room—Dean doesn’t snitch. Sam ‘borrows’ more books—Dean sticks to writing and studying in the library. Doesn’t help that they’re currently covering child psychology. Sally says it’s okay for now though, so nobody interferes. Sam is pretty much unfettered with his progress proceeding as encouragingly as it is. Or isn’t, depending on how much of a pretender Sam is. Or how deep the therapy really reaches him. But that’s none of Dean’s business.

Dean picks Sam up from school. Sam didn’t ask for that, doesn’t expect it.

Sam stares at the helmet Dean holds out for him to take. Reluctantly accepts, but it takes a hell of a time for him to really secure the strap under his chin. Dean waits, motor turned off, no lunch in his stomach. Watches the tremors in Sam’s face come and go, the crumble of his too-old forehead, mouth opening and closing every now and then without making a sound.

Sam climbs onto the bike, choppily with horror. Dean gets ten new crescent-indents in the upper arms of his leather jacket then, a paper-thin chest with a heart going jackrabbit pressed to his back.

He drives them to a local burger place, drive-through. Parks them a little outside of town, a quiet place overlooking the valley. He unpacks the three orders he got from the paper bag. Too hungry himself, he can’t exactly do much about Sam staring down the cartoon cow on the wrappings instead of eating.

Annoyed and halfway through his second burger, Dean tells him, “It’s really good,” and can’t understand half of it himself through his current mouthful. But it does the trick.

Sam eats like a bird. Picking things apart until they’re thimble-tiny. Fingernail portions. They locked him up a lot. Maybe punished him for wolfing down anything that he could find. Would make sense.

“Y’know, I’m not supposed to say this,” drawls Dean, one hand going for his soda, tongue flicking out for the straw just when Sam cheats another baby-bite between his thin-thin lips, “but if you don’t eat your fucking burger, I’ll whoop your ass.”

Sam’s eyes shoot up. Wide. Hard to say if this went too far. Most probably did. But if Dean learned one goddamn thing in all those years his parents are playing Holy Spirit, it’s that these kids sometimes need a hard, ugly push to get them out of their self-preservation tank and back into the Real World.

Sam takes one flat, asthma-thin inhale, before he picks up his burger, both-handedly, and digs in. Like any teenager would—and should.

Sam throws up all of it, later, but Dean is there to rub his back.

~

Sam’s file says he’s sixteen. Depending on his ever-fluid daily form, he can look everything between ten to twenty. Like, a very grown-up twenty. But those are rare moments, mostly stolen in side-peeks while Sally is with him, when Sam is feeling out borders to find words to use.

Sally tells Dean it’s a big help that he ‘lets’ Sam read the psychology books. That Sam is starting to open up using scientific phrases instead of emotional ones, and that it’s a good start. (It’s always a _start_. Every time. With every one of them. In every aspect. And it’s always _positive_ , because they can’t get much worse than how they come here.)

Sam is sprawled on Dean’s bed, tucked right into the corner, cheeks and eyes less fallen-in than they were weeks ago (see, always an improvement) but still ghostly. His malnourishment is just a few pounds shy of your average supermodel dream.

He’s flicking through another weighty tome of Dean’s, one Dean specifically demanded will not leave his room until after the weekend. Sam has severe problems sticking to any rules (as few as he is presented with in the Winchester household), but he’s starting to respect Dean’s now. This, this now _really_ is a first plus in Dean’s eyes.

_“Is it hard? Studying these things?”_

Sam signs weakly despite having eaten good amounts of calories today. Always looks sickly with his yellow-pale skin, scarred and brittle. His hair is growing like crazy but he won’t let anyone talk about a haircut.

_“Nah. I kinda grew up with it.”_

_“It must be tough.”_

_“Not really.”_

_“Are you their real kid?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Were there many before me?”_

_“I lost count.”_ (Not true: Sam is number thirteen.)

_“Okay.”_

Sam shifts to scratch between his legs. He doesn’t like to shower.

~

“You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

“What; he wasn’t _here_ , Dad, he dropped me off by the fucking _road_!”

“Dean, language.” John glares in that hurt way of his. Like it makes anything better. Hunches over some more, elbows on his knees as if he was praying, but with his eyes trained on Dean. “Sam saw you.”

Dean snorts, throws his arms out to the sides with a helpless laugh. “Yeah, so? My god, we know he hasn’t been raped—”

“Dean—”

“—we were just _kissing_ , what the fuck is—”

“Dean!”

John is up now, and Dean doesn’t move an inch. Feels his chest heaving, sees his father’s doing the same.

“Is this Leah all over again, Dean?”

Dean chokes, “Don’t,” and Dad manages to get a hand on his back, lay it there all warm and huge, murmurs, “You know the rules,” and Dean does, but they never were fair to begin with.

Sam, of course, sneaks into Dean’s room half an hour or so after Dean slumped back into it. Their eyes meet across the room, Dean propped up against the wall by the window, pipe in both hands and a snarl between his teeth. Enough to make Sam duck but not enough to scare him off.

Sam quietly closes the door behind himself, folds himself onto the floor by the end of Dean’s bed, hands in his lap, blinking—what, in pity?

Dean averts his glare with the next hit.

The room is dark with late evening, beginning night. The Stones are playing through Aftermath on speakers Dean rarely uses; today for the first time ever since Sam came here.

Dean lets his mouth off the pipe, doesn’t close it but doesn’t exhale either. Keeps his eyes on Sam, feels them gloss over with the soothing burn in his lungs.

The smoke curls between them.

Sam looks childish. Small.

_“Is he your boyfriend?”_

Dean’s laugh feels slurred. “Why, you jealous?”

Sam frowns.

“Thanks by the way for ratting me out. Really appreciate the gesture.”

_“Sorry. I didn’t know it was a secret.”_

“Wasn’t,” rumbles Dean, lips already chasing the mouthpiece again. “You jus’ weren’t supposed to _see_.” Another hit. Held breath. Squinting eyes. “Like, seeing someone make out would trigger you. Heaven forbid!”

Sam signs, _“I don’t mind,”_ and Dean grunts, “Tell _them_.”

_“Are you gay?”_

“This is a free country, kid. I’ll stick it into anyone I want.” Dean frowns to himself. Considers, then backpedals, “Don’t tell ’em I said that.”

Sam shakes his head as he crawls closer.

“What, ‘no’? You won’t tell?”

Sam nods. His hair bobs with the movement.

Dean slurs, “Good boy.”

The next time Dean looks up from the inside of his eyelids and the glow of his pipe, Sam is sitting, like, right next to him. On the floor, but.

(Don’t get close to the fences. Don’t feed the animals.)

Dean squints, slightly tightens his loosened grip on his pipe.

_“Can I try?”_

“No, you fuckin’ can’t. Fuck off.”

Dean watches Sam watching the smoke curl through the pipe, the cherry gleaming bright. He sucks extra-hard to have a lungful of smoke to artistically blow above their heads.

Sam is enrapt like Dean is doing a magic trick.

“Fuck off.”

_“Please.”_

“No.”

_“Please.”_

“Get lost, squid.”

Sam drops his hand then, chapped little mouth fluttering open, and Dean just barely hears, “Please.”

Dean feels numb.

Dean licks his lips. “Look.” Hand back through his hair, feels good. “You think this is workin’ on me, huh? You real-boyin’ here like some cheap—” He cuts himself off. Keeps his hand over his mouth. “You wanna play grown-up? Yeah, fine. You know what? Grown-ups pay. They _pay_ for shit.” With his hand, he almost drops his pipe. Shakes his head all solemn. “You’re gonna pay for my shit, or you ain’t getting anything.”

Sam doesn’t say that he doesn’t have money. He doesn’t have to: the Winchesters, as generous as they are, do not hand out allowance. So: Sam is broke as shit. As broke as Dean was at his age, as broke as he always is in between jobs (babysitting, table waiting) even today.

Dean’s pulse creeps down where he doesn’t like to see it going.

Observes it.

Lets it.

“You don’t have any cash, do you?”

Sam lowers his eyes in shame. Yeah. Right.

“Sucks, huh? That you can’t blackmail me for it. Because they’d fucking lose it if they caught you smoking pot.” Dean chuckles. “See, that’s the good part about being their _real_ son: they don’t give a fuck, ’cause no matter how hard I fuck up, I could never be as screwed as you little bastards.”

~

Sam doesn’t look at him the next day. No surprise. But the pipe is gone when Dean checks its hideout in the afternoon, and that is a problem.

For the first time ever since Jack tried to slit his wrists in the bathroom, Dean is goddamn glad not a single door in this fucking house has a lock.

Because Mom is downstairs in her home office, Dean very, very quietly closes the door behind himself.

Sam, startling on his bed but clinging to the glass pipe, indicates that yeah, Dean looks about as angry as he feels.

Dean signs exaggeratedly calm, _“You can pick locks?”_

Sam is frozen.

_“Give it back.”_

Sam curls in on himself, pipe forgotten and spilling Dean’s hard earned pot all over the bedding, into his own hair; and this makes Dean furious enough to shut out all the wise voices, just go for the one, the only, the _true_ one, and he lunges for the dead-still body in Fynn-Gina-Lisa-Jack-Darleen-Jennifer-Leah-Phoebe-Philipp-Ashley-Troy-Daniel-Samuel’s bed.

There is no struggle but for one shriek, so high-pitched Dean barks for the pain it inflicts on his eardrums.

He is quick to shove Sam’s face into the pillow, press his head down with all his force.

“Give – it – back.” (Gritted through teeth, breath hot against Sam’s ear somewhere under all that hair.)

He can feel Sam sobbing.

(Not like Sam could move his arms with how Dean has him pinned, but.)

“Move it. Or I’ll break your neck; I swear to god.”

There’s a bucking motion. Sam is as tough as any survivor, goddamn thunder and battery acid under Dean’s body, close-close but not close enough, hurting Dean back just right and Dean gasps, shocked, because he knows what is happening and he has to stop.

_Now_.

Rolling off of Sam turns out to be the easiest part. Hyperventilation. Puke. Cramping. Incontinency. Rivers of sweat.

The pipe lies atop of Sam’s pillow, unharmed.

~

Sam doesn’t tell Dean’s parents.

Which confuses and delights Dean to embarrassing extents.

“How do you sign ‘Stockholm Syndrome’?”

Sam scared-rabbit eyes him for that but eats his burger (even though he slows down a little).

“’Cause that’s what’s going on,” presses Dean. “Isn’t it?”

Sam chews. Swallows.

Dean smirks to himself, his food, Sam’s dirty sneakers on the ground right next to his own.

“You freak.”

~

“Sit in my lap.”

The palm Dean uses to pat his thigh feels damp.

“C’mon.”

Sam, delayed with his usual hesitation, does.

Settles like a feather, really, legs tucked under and away around Dean’s hips, the boniest ass Dean has ever wanted to lay his hands on digging back against Dean’s thighs and crotch.

Dean’s mouth stutters open in regret, but his eyes probably say it all.

Sam brings both his hands up to hide his face behind, but Dean says, “It’s okay,” as he pulls them out of the way. Wants to see every shade of ugly, needs to.

Dean bucks his hips up, once, just to see Sam sway.

One hand holding the pipe, the other Sam’s hip—Dean feels really fucking powerful right now.

Careful-observant, “They ever bad-touched you?”

Sam hides again, but shakes his head vigorously. Dean lets him.

“That a ‘no, they didn’t’ or a ‘no, don’t make me think about it’?”

Sam pushes his hands up high enough to uncover his mouth so Dean can read, “Nobody.”

“You like this?”

The faintest, the most fragile, “I dunno.”

Dean raises the pipe between them. One tug on his t-shirt makes Sam peek through his fingers, hopefully see the softness in Dean’s face, not the shards Dean feels like he is chewing.

“You keep sitting there until I’m done and you get one hit. Or…”

(Shivery, Dean notices that this edge under his thumb isn’t a seam of Sam’s jeans; it’s his _hipbone_.)

Dean’s lashes feel fluttery and his stomach is sick.

“…you suck my dick and we share.”

Sam, shifting back to get his face between Dean’s legs, easily is the most holy/unholy thing Dean has ever caused.

They’re both one trembling breath in, realizing that this is happening, and Sam has Dean’s jeans open so fast Dean is hit unprepared.

Dean drops the pipe, swears, “Shit,” and there’s a hole burnt into his sheets and a foster child mouth on his dick, and—he’s gonna die.

Sam licks fat lines with the most unskilled tongue Dean has ever felt, doesn’t stop for the tip and just swipes right across, makes Dean shudder out and buck his hips.

“Shit…shit shit shit shit…”

Dean takes a hit, three.

“Here. Hey. Hey, squid.”

Sam has small, watery eyes. There’s something like a shy blush creeping up that corpse-face, and Dean’s thumb drags over his mouth in worship.

“Here, try it. Slowly. Like you’re breathing normally.”

Sam sucks the pipe into his mouth, and Dean _wants_ that.

Sam coughs like crazy. They take a break. Dean rubs circles between Sam’s shoulder blades, can count vertebras here like on a Thanksgiving turkey, and he wants that, he _wants_.

“Try again.”

Sam does. Doesn’t die this time. (Mom is downstairs. Dad is working.)

Dean tugs on Sam’s tee with a hand he wishes he could feel more of, feels his mouth slurring, “Take that off,” but Sam shakes his head with intent now, clasps the pipe in his bone-hands and Dean nods, accepts the apology of Sam’s mouth back on his dick.

“Are there scars? Do you have more scars?” (Dean doesn’t even look up to check on Sam’s reaction.) “But I bet they’re beautiful. You can show me.” Hands into Sam’s hair. Sweat. “More. Do that again. Yeah…”

Dean shoots way too fast for his own liking, gasps but holds Sam’s head (which wanted to pull off) in place. He only lets him up when he’s done.

Sam spits Dean’s load on Dean’s belly, and Dean groans.

(Half-disgust, half-pride.)

“Fuck. You goddamn bitch.”

Sam flips him off and takes over the pipe.

~

The pictures strewn across the coffee table range from unsullied to disturbing. Sam uses yellow a lot.

Mary sighs, chin in her palm and inspecting one picture in particular, which Dean only gave a fleeing look. He rather sticks to the less obvious ones. It’s like a game—finding patterns, hints. The ‘happy’ pictures always tell the most.

Sally takes photos of three at a time to take back to her office. Sam was right—she _does_ smell of lavender rather intensely lately. (It’s just a theory, but Dean has a feeling she’s changing her perfume for every new client. If she ever reuses old ones? There are only so many scents available, right?)

Dean goes from watching her indifferent-professional face to the new set she is arranging. Your typical ‘house and family’ scenario. Sally usually phrases her prompt for these ones like ‘can you draw your family and house for me?’, and two of the three obviously sprung from said prompt, but number three…

Sam draws himself small and without a face. Mother has long hair, sausage-like fingers, arms crossed. Father with glasses, exaggeratedly long legs and arms. The house looms next to them, extra-large and very simple, no roof; one row of flimsy windows on the very top. Maybe they lived in an apartment rather than a house.

But picture number three—there is a _sun_. There are blue checkered curtains in tall windows. Everyone is hugging. Even stick-figure Sam has a wide smile on his face. And there’s a dog. And another boy—maybe a brother?

_“What’s this one?”_

“His ‘dream family’.”

Sally takes another photo.

~

Sam is sandpaper-rough around the edges, and he’s fire in between.

He quivers like jelly when Dean first gets his dick out and he comes after what Dean will always remember as thirteen strokes.

Thirteen. Thirteen. Isn’t that supposed to bring bad luck?

The bathroom is silent but for Dean’s persistent heartbeat.

_“Now do mine.”_

~

The first time Dean realizes he _needs_ to fuck Sam goes as follows (and that’s the _realization_ ; there were thoughts for weeks, ideas, hours of watching and imagining):

Sam and him and Dad, grocery shopping. Sam stretches on his tiptoes to get to the family sized cornflakes. Pit-stains. Shoulder blades like wings poking out of his shirt, sliver of naked skin because he’s shot up like a weed and his clothes don’t fit anymore, and.

Sam sneaks one, two, three fingers into Dean’s hand. While Dad is an aisle away, choosing a new barbecue sauce brand to try.

Dean has never, ever, clasped something this tightly.

And that’s how Dean knows.

Number thirteen. Unlucky number. It had to be. It’s destiny.

Confronted with the plan, Sam stills like he does when he hears someone yell from miles away (like a dog or something). Part of him never stops being on guard.

Dean’s little brother huffs, “I dunno,” and nobody can hear it but Dean. Sam frowns, considers something. Then signs, _“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”_

_“No.”_

_“If you have someone, I don’t want to.”_

_“Nobody.”_

Sam’s huge-slim paw in Dean’s hand grows damper with every heartbeat. He’s always sweaty now that it’s summer but refuses to wear shorts, to go barefoot, to take off his sweater in public. He reeks in the loveliest, the most undisclosed way.

The pot isn’t doing Sam good. Sally says she can’t quite reach him nowadays, that he’s more closed off again and she doesn’t understand why. But how is it possible that he’s blooming when he’s with Dean? That he’s the sweetest, most reasonable kid who ever lived in this house once they’re on their own?

(It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Why does this always have to happen? Isn’t he old enough yet to count as an adult, too, so that they stay away from him, too?)

Sam mouths, “I don’t wanna be naked.”

Sam watches with tear-fat eyes and a quivering chin how Dean makes up dreams of sheets, lights off, you can keep your shirt on, I won’t look, promise.

Sam breaks into downright sobbing.

Signs in between the waves that he wants it, but that he’s scared. _“I’m ugly,”_ he says, over and over, huffs it out loud when Dean pins his wrists to make him shut up.

(There is an unlocked drawer in Mary’s office, and in Sam’s file there are pictures of Sam just after they got him out. They catalogued his scars as if Sam was a museum piece. The many, many burn marks like a field of freckles, like a dozen belly buttons.)

Dean has trouble holding on.

~

It’s the seventh of July, and Sam licks over-behind Dean’s tongue.

He has gained enough weight to make Dean huff when he’s lying on top of him like that.

_“Can I? Can I?”_

Sam doesn’t stop nodding. His hair is sticking everywhere. Dean only hates it a little.

Sam’s ass is really fucking small, each cheek barely enough for a handful. Dean pulls it apart nonetheless, eyes wide in the dark under the sheets to find any doubt in Sam’s face. He pulls those frog-legs wider, hips back. Dean is buck-naked and Sam’s long-sleeve tee is soaked through.

Dean cups a hand over Sam’s mouth when he starts to sob, hushes, “Shhh,” even though he feels like bawling himself, his dick barely breaching this little thing and it’s as wet as it will get.

Dean rolls them over, hand still on Sam’s mouth, sheets fluttering above them and Sam’s legs hooked over his shoulders, slipping off when he seizes on the push in.

Dean has to use both hands; one on Sam’s throat now.

Sam is convulsing with tears.

It can’t hurt him. It can’t.

He isn’t even _in_ yet.

“Show me what you need,” pants Dean.

Sam’s hands are shaking.

_“Breath. Breath. Breath.”_

“No, you’re too loud.”

_“Please. Quiet. Promise. Please.”_

Dean’s hands fly off and he pushes his hips out, deeper, just to test Sam—but not a sound.

Just. That small, overwhelmed gasp.

Like he’s relieved. Like he’s happy.

Dean goes down on both elbows, frames Sam’s head with them. He begins to rock on top of Sam, slowly, making Sam scrabble for support. Nails rake over Dean’s chest and neck until Sam settled in, boy-claws digging into Dean’s hair and his mouth quaking but open, tiny fuck-oh Dean focuses on in his frenzy.

Sam makes sweet little gut-punch noises, stolen breaths Dean eats right from his mouth.

“Does it hurt?”

Sam shakes his head and whips his hair into his own face as he does.

Dean doesn’t pull out, but Sam’s body won’t let him go this time.

Dean flicks a nipple through Sam’s shirt, jacks Sam’s runny uncut cock until he spasms, milks Dean with his insides as if there was anything left to give while he comes all over himself, over Dean’s hand.

Dean licks his hand clean. Rolls them to their sides, holds Sam close.

~

Nobody tells them the nightmares never go away. They probably know anyway.

Deep sleep is something you grow out of fast growing up with deaf or mute children thrashing in their beds at night, every night. The deaf ones startle you way more with their loud, booming voice you usually don’t get to hear at that volume. The mute ones are simply spine-chilling.

Dean calls them Scared Rabbit sounds. Except for when they’re scared for their life, rabbits don’t have voices. All they’re capable of is screaming.

Sam is like that. Just like the others he whimpers, but with vocal cords as wrecked as his, only the highest notes come out like a breath of air, a whistle in the otherwise silent house.

And then the screams set in.

Dean alternates between getting up to wake Sam and doing nothing at all. It’s dangerous to shake them like they need to be shaken in order to snap out of it; Dean once almost lost an eye, no joke. They flail and kick when they’re still asleep, but if you _touch_ them, they go right for you. It’s an instinct. They can’t control it.

Sam is on medication, just like the others. And just like the others, his subconsciousness is way too busted to be drugged away completely. They could put him in a coma and he would still dream. There is no way out.

Dean asks for permission that is granted to him. So he packs the pipe and Sam and a bottle of water, and they walk. Down the street at first, then farther after Sam seems to be doing okay. Almost shoulder to shoulder they’re walking so close. Sam’s body odor is even more obvious outside, in fresh air. Dean would put an arm around him, but he’s a coward.

It’s weird that being locked up in small spaces makes you fear open spaces. Well, small spaces too, of course. And that isolation makes you fear masses of people. You’d think the mind would crave to catch up with the neglect, but, nah.

They had kids that lashed out at everything and everyone. (Dean calls them Rottweilers, as they’re usually biters.) They had the criers. And then there were the ones who froze. Whenever something seemed to threaten them, they would either run and hide or stop moving entirely, stare, sometimes hold their breath.

Sam falls into the freezer category. Loud noises are his worst triggers, closely followed by too-sudden physical contact (a pat on his back, a shoulder-nudge, having his hand grabbed). He doesn’t like being alone, but any room filled with more than three people has him shutting off. They’re hoping they can transfer him into a normal school in a few months, but Dean can’t see that yet.

They make a stop at a local playground. It’s past ten and as dark as it will get during the summer. Street lights and a warm breeze save the scene from appearing creepy.

Dean goes up front, takes over the swing. Sam copies him. His hair and clothes—underneath the usual sweater and jeans, secretly handed over, one of Dean’s favorite tees; the Zeppelin one—flutter in the wind. He’s going fast and high, and Dean at first is startled by an unfamiliar sound until he realizes it’s Sam, laughing.

To be honest, it sounds really fucking ugly. Some sort of wheeze-grunt.

Dean never wants it to stop.

Monkey bars are next. Sam seems to enjoy himself a lot. They’re doing physical therapy with him too, but nothing can substitute a peer, a friend to play with. So Dean goofs around, so Dean laughs, loud and uninhibited because Sam joins in when he does. They’re chasing each other. Sam lets Dean tickle him, squirms like a worm. He’s such a lightweight, like a baby, like a toddler. (When Sam stands, he is as tall as Dean.)

When Sam grabs for Dean, he does so like a newborn: all his force, nails digging and unconscious of his strength. White-knuckled, he’s pulling Dean’s already-shit shirts to even more shit, and Dean should be angry but he isn’t. Because lying here, in the sand, with Sam’s rattling breath and Sam’s dimpled-up cheeks, crinkles around his teen-face and his sandpaper-hands holding onto him, that’s Heaven.

Sam is a very bad kisser. But it’s getting better, like everything always does with them.

Sam swings himself up, one leg over Dean’s so he can straddle him, pat him down for the pipe. Doesn’t mean to arouse Dean, no, clearly doesn’t; head-space of a eight-year-old. A greedy eight-year-old who lights pot pipes with ease and makes the most disgusted face when he realizes it’s pure tobacco.

“Dude,” Dean laughs. Adds in signs, _“We can’t smoke pot out here.”_

Dean has got both hands on Sam’s wide-open twiggy thighs, more bone than muscle but warm, warm. Sam smokes, smacks his lips for the new taste, frowns.

Dean licks his lips. Holds back from grinding his dick up against Sam’s nothing-ass but rubs his thighs with the heels of his hands. Presses him down like that, almost-unintentionally.

Sam hands the pipe over, climbs off Dean to stand up. Upon Dean’s, _“Not good?”_ shakes his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Dean, left behind, smokes for a moment before he follows Sam to the swings.

_“Are you mad at me?”_

Sam swings.

_“You need it that bad?”_

Sam begins to sign mid-swing.

“Dude, I can’t see shit.”

Sam rolls his eyes; Dean does see _that_. The kid stops swinging, lets Dean crowd into his space (between his legs) as he talks.

_“It makes me feel good. Better than the medicine.”_

“Bullshit. It only makes you forget. It doesn’t make anything better.”

Sam frowns but lets Dean cup his cheek. The radiating heat from running around quickly subsides. _“I don’t care.”_

“But _I_ do. And I’m telling you, will only make things worse. In the long run. It’s not a solution.”

(Sam has the weirdest eyes. Like, fragments of color, all thrown into one pot, badly melted into one.) _“But you do it too.”_

Dean laughs. Holds the pipe in his mouth, signs. _“Yeah. Cause I’m dumb.”_

_“You’re very smart. You’re in college.”_

_“Cause my folks want me to.”_ Another laugh, another deep inhale-exhale of smoke. _“I’m actually not doing so well. But don’t tell Mom. It’d break her heart.”_

_“You can write papers about me.”_

Dean laughs. _“About you?”_

Sam nods. The way he cranes his head, the patches of scarred tissue scattered all over on his neck stretch and dull-shimmer in the low light. _“If it helps?”_

_“It’s fine. I’ll be okay. But thanks.”_

They get back home shortly after midnight. Sam doesn’t have a problem getting his ass up for Dean as long as Dean holds his shirt in place. Allows the mirror in front of them as long as Dean lets him close his eyes for it. Bounces back on Dean’s cock like he really, really enjoys it, some of him finally starting to jiggle with the impact.

One hand comes to circle Sam’s throat from behind, and Sam flinches but doesn’t stop Dean once he realizes he won’t be hurt. Is tense, yeah, but allows it. Trusts him like Dean’s parents trust Dean, like Sally, like Dean’s therapist, like all the other children did.

~

The next day, during dinner, John hums, “You’re looking better,” with a gentle nod towards Sam, a dad-soft expression.

In the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam signing his agreement with a smile. Smiles to himself. To his dinner.

Mom and Dad have teacher reports, they have Sally’s word—but they don’t have the freshly cut insides of Sam’s thighs. Which Dean kisses as he demurely listens to Sam explaining all matter-of-fact, all child-stubborn, _“If I get too well, they’ll send me away.”_

_“They will do that one way or the other, man.”_

_“I don’t want to leave.”_

_“Don’t worry. I won’t let you.”_


End file.
